nothing sounds as sweet (as you)
by bravestofheart
Summary: She's trying to grade papers. He's trying not to fall in love.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This sort of follows canon. My first attempt at writing twelve (yay!); so feedback is very appreciated. 

* * *

Clara Oswald will never understand how he can go from being all furrowed eyebrows and gruff, Scottish snark to what she swears is an inch away from a _pout_ , of all things, in mere seconds.

"I'm busy." Oh, but he's bored and he _misses_ her. Not that he'll admit it. She already knows, he thinks. "Papers to grade."

"We can be back in seconds."

"Mhm, that's why they didn't get done last time. Wasn't like you dropped me off _thirty five_ hours late."

"Touché."

That's how he ends up at her place, pacing around her small flat, 'fixing' her appliances (she finds out later that her kettle takes three seconds to boil, and her toaster _talks_ ), and attempting to convince her that there are planets far better suited to grading papers than Earth. Like she's falling for that one.

She's curled on the couch, cocooned in an oversized sweatshirt, papers scattered over the coffee table, tendrils of hair escaping her ponytail. He wants to reach out and tuck those delicate wisps behind her hair. Or muss her hair up further. Perhaps both.

She thinks she can feel his eyes burning into her. He thinks her sweatshirt might be trying to _eat_ her.

"Done," she murmurs after what feels like years to him - but perhaps it's worth waiting to see the smile that tugs at her lips, though he can see the weariness forming in her eyes. Humans and their need for sleep; he supposes adventures can wait.

He makes tea for them, she sips at hers and pats the space next to her gently, watching as he gingerly settles next to her. There's a careful air about him, always leaving just a little too much space between them. She wonders if he knows how that makes her heart tighten.

He's far away, sipping at his tea, seemingly wrapped in his own thoughts. Raindrops patter delicately against the roof, the windows - there's a comforting sort of quiet hanging in the room. "What are you thinking?" she says.

That he doesn't know what he's feeling.  
That he wants to wrap himself up in her warmth.  
That he's never noticed how sweet the sound of rainfall is; or perhaps it's that she's with him that causes this sense of security and calm to wash over him in gentle, caressing waves.

That he's too scared to admit it's her, always her.

"Oh, nothing much."


	2. Chapter 2

They're in the TARDIS the next time things turn domestic (though he hates thinking that the second that word pops into his mind, since when were they _domestic_ with each other?). It's not his fault this time. Well, not really. Sure, he might've gotten them into this mess in the first place, but he wasn't the one that left the vibro-cutters in the wrong jacket.

 _"Why have you got two jackets? Is one of them faulty?"_

She'd given him an exasperated look at that. Okay, so he supposes it's a normal pudding-brain thing to not wear the same jacket every day. He makes a mental note to keep important, potentially life saving things in _his_ pockets.

He's not sure how long they'd spent outside, but it's taken its toll on her. Human bodies aren't designed to take prolonged sun exposure - let alone from twin suns. She's flushed and panting by the time they get to the TARDIS, shakily moving to sit down, clutching her head. A quick scan confirms his thoughts - she's got heatstroke. Bad heatstroke, probably.

"Let's get you to bed," he murmurs gently, reaching to help her up and guide her; she's still shaky and she stumbles, he opts to scoop her up in his arms, cradling her carefully as he carries her. She's patting his arm a little, delirium beginning to set in. She's thinking about how strong his arms are. There's a smile on her lips, threatening to turn into a giggle - she bites her lip to suppress it.

He doesn't admit what that does to him.

He tucks her into his bed gently, brings her water and medication before sinking down in a chair to watch over her. She watches him in return, whining softly and gazing at him pleadingly.

"Come lay with me?" Her words slur a little and he hesitates, deliberating. _"Pleaaaaase?"_

So he settles next to her, allowing her to shift close, fingers toying with her hair absently.

"You're cooler," she murmurs appreciatively, and he nods. "Time Lord biology. My body heat is naturally colder than yours - and yours is far warmer than normal right now."

She lets out an unintelligible response to that, and he's about to ask her what she'd said when he realises that she's starting to drift off, and so he lets her sleep, holding her and delicately pressing a kiss to her forehead. He doesn't sleep. Not that he really needs to.

She sleeps soundly for hours - at least ten, eventually waking and letting out a yawn, stretching out. He takes that as his cue to shift back slightly, smiling softly when those big brown eyes of hers meet his.

"Ow," she murmurs quietly, and his head dips in a gentle nod before he slips out of bed, bringing her more water and medication. Her skin is still red and warm to the touch, though he thinks that's now only from the sunburn, and not from the heatstroke. He takes care of her as best as he can, indulging her when she decides that she wants ice cream for breakfast and bringing her cold water whenever she wants. She decides at some point that she's getting up, damn his insistence that she stays put, disappearing off to the bathroom - but she comes back grumbling and exhausted, admitting defeat and collapsing back into bed. He offers to read to her to help pass the time.

"I'm too hot," she complains later on, patting the space next to her. There's a slight, smug expression on her face when he moves to sit next to her, and she leans into him, head resting against his upper arm. Much as he thinks he should keep his distance, she pulls him in, sometimes just by existing, like she has some gravitational pull about her. Other times, it's that look in her eye, the one that seems to say _do what I say, or I'll slap you._

For someone so small, she sure does a good job of putting him in his place.

They stay like that for the rest of the day, him reading to her, or chatting with her leisurely when she's feeling more chipper. She stays another night (or another sleep, technically, he's not sure it counts as being nighttime when they're in the TARDIS, floating in space), and he keeps watch over her again. He's thinking about how she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, even if she is all blotchy and red right now.

He brings her back home the next day, and she's back to normal, asides from how her skin has done that funny human thing of turning a few shades darker from the sun (he doesn't think it's noticeable - but he's wrong, everyone notices). She's bright and chirpy, and then she's telling him that she needs to be back by five, she's got to get herself ready for a date, and—

 _Oh._

"A date," he answers, though it's more of a statement than a question, and he hates how his chest feels like it's caving in. She nods, eyeing him closely. He forces his demeanour to shift so she'll stop giving him that _look_ ; this particular regeneration seems to have a tendency to make disappointed look grumpy, angry. He blames the eyebrows.

He watches her leave, the way she skips lightly out of the TARDIS, hair swishing behind her, and wonders when it was that he started feeling so possessive over Clara Oswald.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a boy in a bowtie and he _knows_ that's who she's got her eye on. They talk together, and he watches the way the corners of her eyes crinkle, how her lips part in delicate laughs. _Of course it'd be him._ His heart sinks, aching with longing and regret, and oh, how he wishes he hadn't been so foolish, that he'd told her how he felt when he still had her. When he had a chance. But that was a different time, and he had a different face - he fears that he's missed his chance to have her heart, as irrevocably as she already has his.

 _"I never said it was your mistake."_

He wants to be a good man for her - oh, he really does. It's that drive that keeps his selfishness quiet; he's cheerful, too cheerful, and she's got a bemused expression on her face that seems to be asking if he's gone mad. Maybe he has, he thinks. He wonders if she knows that she drives him crazy.

—

He's bitter and angry now, thoughts and emotions festering in his mind and his hearts, and that well practiced façade of being _fine_ is slipping; and they both know it.

He thought he knew where her heart lied and he was so horribly wrong. He wants to scream at the universe until it understands that if he can't have her, that she is all that matters and she deserves infinitely more than what she has. She certainly deserves more than _him_ \- he doesn't think they'll last. But he keeps his mouth shut.

She's already been directing him glares all evening after all, eyes like deadly, pointed daggers. He's fucked up this time, and he knows it.

For the moment though, her eyes are softer, tinged with warmth and concern. She's observing him quietly, carefully; like he's a wild animal and she's unsure if he'll bite. His stomach twists with guilt, he hates that she has to tiptoe her way around him, the tension in the air thick, yet as fragile as eggshells. He can already feel the cracks forming, delicate hairline fractures that he fears will split open every time she says his name or gives him those empathetic, wide eyed looks. He's afraid that if he cracks open she won't like what she finds - his insides feel like jagged broken glass and he's bitter, raw and so very angry.

—

She's not there when he reaches that edge. He feels hollowed out, a shell of a man and he's shattering into pieces over her— but he doesn't blame her. He blames himself for being a fool, for letting himself fall, for waiting too long to tell her. And he blames _him,_ for worming his way into Clara Oswald's heart, clawing his way into every part of her like some virus, for having the _nerve_ to ask her to stop, to try and take his Clara from him. And he blames the universe; because fucking hell, some days it feels like a higher power is conspiring to keep happiness from him, always tantalising, barely out of his reach.

But he doesn't blame her. No, he could never blame her.

He's glad she doesn't witness him fall apart. It's a breaking point they've always been dangerously close to, where he'll have to admit what he feels for her, how she's his universe, how he'd burn galaxies to keep her safe - and then she'll leave, for their own good. Or she'll stay, and he thinks that might be worse. That their love will consume them. _Clara Clara Clara Clara Clara._ He thinks her name is his favourite word, that the sound of her name is more familiar to him than the thudding of his hearts. Some days her name seems like a blessing, full of warmth and love and _hope._

Today, her name feels like a curse.

—

She asks him later if he's okay, lips curling around his name as if it's something precious, treasured. _Fine,_ he says, but he's still sharp around the edges, and the smile he forces his lips to curl into doesn't reach his eyes. His mind is elsewhere, thoughts still bitter, filled with static. His head throbs and he can't tell if it's from his thoughts twisting and whirling through his brain, or his hearts pounding, blood rushing through his ears. He's not fine and she knows it, _fuck,_ he knows that she knows it.

There's a breaking point that they've always been dangerously close to, that terrifies him to his core— and he fears that they've reached it.

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 **A/N:** Stay tuned for some angst~ I'm kind of winging this fic tbh so I'm willing to be influenced with what direction it takes... but there's rough times ahead, I promise you all that


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